It still amazes me that tears come to me fairly easily nowadays. As a child I grew up to believe they were a sign of weakness. Being called ‘waterworks’ or ‘cry-baby’ on a regular basis served only to reinforce such feelings. I learnt very quickly how to suppress tears and deny vulnerability, coating myself with a tough outer shell that was frequently mistaken for coldness and lack of empathy. My outer crust still leads people to believe that I am strong, but those closest to me know my soft centre, small, anxious and afraid.
The counselling course I embarked on in the mid 90s helped me to uncover some blind spots and I gradually came to realise that it was unhealthy to cover up ones inner feelings all the time, and that everyone needs a few trusted people, friends and family to open up to. This has also helped my empathy with others as I can see that such emotions are reciprocal.
This morning I prepare a couple of hand warming gel pads and cycle the couple of miles to the chemist for the prescription. The warmth makes the neuropathy tolerable. On my return still feeling sick and desperate to drink something that tastes nice I just burst into tears. I sit on the stairs sobbing for about five minutes, feeling really sorry for myself. I discover that fresh grapefruit squeezed into hot water tastes fine, so I make a large mug of that which makes me feel a little better. Kate from the Chemo unit calls and has some sensible suggestions as to what I might try. She tells me I should ring them tomorrow morning if I am still having problems.
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